


Where You Want To Be

by ahestele



Category: Eminem (Musician), John Mayer (Musician), Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-21
Updated: 2003-08-21
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahestele/pseuds/ahestele
Summary: Where WAS Eminem on Oscar night? This is what he was doing on Oscar night in *my* universe.Takes place right before and during the 2003 Academy Awards.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication, from 2003: For rubywisp, for urging me to post the work in its entirety because it would be stronger, and not caving to the feedback jones to post in fragments. You are always right. For lilysaid, who liked the first draft a lot. And for rabid_x, my speedybeta. Any mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is totally and categorically a work of fiction. No harm of any sort is intended.

Marshall freckled before he tanned. Sprinkles of cinnamon across his shoulders and back, a dash across his nose above the pouty sneer, and John liked to walk his fingers over the new dots, mapping them and baptizing each one like he plucked chords for a new song. The most successful angry white rapper of the twenty-first century peeled and freckled and John chuckled at the thought. 

“You laughing at me?”

“Yup.”

“Punk.” But the sneer stretched into a grin, long lashes, now bleached blond fluttered and the skin beneath his fingers relaxed and gave. 

He bent over to press a kiss between the dotted shoulder blades, in the sweet valley that caught the heat, and the body beneath his lips shivered. 

 

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

“So I’m blowing off the fuckin’ Oscars.”

“Excuse me? What?” John muted the sound on the X-Men movie because it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it twelve times, and sat up straighter on the couch. Shifted the cell phone to his other ear. “It sounded like you said you were blowing off the Oscars.”

“Don’t you start, too, a’ight?” And John could tell just from the aggravated tone many people had already told Marshall he was crazy to do that. People Marshall respected. “Fuckin’ academy’s givin’ me static about the lyrics already, so fuck it. I ain’t dressing up and sitting through a bunch of boring shit just to watch myself lose.”

“Okay.” John said. He felt like he should have a t-shirt sometimes: The Magical Diffuser to The Infamous Mathers Temper. “What does Dre say?”

“You know Dre. Not much.” John believed it. He’d been around Marshall enough to observe the dynamic between the two men, and they seemed to have a kind of emotional shorthand going on. They looked so different on the surface: Marshall’s bombastic, simmering rage and Dre’s taciturn cool, but if Dre thought Marshall should go to the ceremony John was sure his stubborn boyfriend would be figuring out what kind of tux to wear by now. 

“You know, it’s probably overrated. Movie stars. Prestige. Who needs that?”

“Shut up.” But he heard the smile in the word, then, lower. “What are you doing that week?”

“Me?” He blinked. 

“No, dog. The OTHER guitar-playing pretty boy I’m fucking.”

“How is Justin Timberlake?”

“I'ma tear you up you don’t take that back.” John laughed at the growl and kept laughing as he heard Marshall sputter on the other end. Sometimes he was just too easy to wind up.  
“Timberlake can’t play nothin’ but his own dick.”

“Come on. He’s really talented, musically.” 

“You go fuck ‘im then.”

“Nah.” John grinned. “There’s this insane blond guy I’m seeing. Doesn’t share too well with others.”

Marshall snorted and John smiled, then: “Seriously. What are you doing that week?”

“Uh….” John headed for the computer, refusing to acknowledge the thrill in his stomach. It didn’t pay to second-guess Marshall. “I’ll have to check.”

“Do it.”

“Doing it.” He murmured while he clicked on his yahoo calendar to see what popped up. All he saw were a couple of tentative dates and a movie premiere. If he moved fast he could tell his manager not to confirm the venues, but it would help to know what he’d be moving fast for. 

“Fuck, man, how long does this take?”

“I’ve got a college friend who can hook you up with some valium.” John suggested idly. “’Cause, you know, patience IS a virtue.”

“Suck my….”

“I think I’m free. I have to make a couple of calls.”

“For real?”

“Yeah…..?” He made it a question and it was still a few beats before Marshall spoke again.

“Come to Hawaii with me.” The statement came out low and rough; a little bit angry, in the tone John had come to look upon as his. He’d heard that voice in the dark, tangled up together, so close he could feel Marshall’s heart beat. He’d heard it whispered into his mouth as they kissed furiously, a grabbed interlude between concerts and interviews and family visits. It made him flush and hard and unable to catch is breath. 

“Hello?” Marshall demanded, sounding irritated and annoyed. 

“I’m here.” He said finally. 

“Whatever man. Forget I said anything. I was just….”

“Marshall.”

“Fuckin’ with ya, see what you’d do. It’s nothing…”

“Marshall.”

“Off my ass…”

“MARSHALL.” He laughed. “Shut up, okay?” He heard panting through the phone and could picture him, blue, blue eyes defensive and shuttered, fists clenched like he did when he was upset or nervous, which he never copped to being. 

“I can go.” The panting cut off and now John listened to silence on the other end. He waited patiently, checking his e-mail. Surfing. 

“Yeah?” Low, rough, but hopeful and his heart did a flutter thing, like arrhythmia in his chest. 

“Yeah.”

“Good.” The voice on the other end got more confident. “I’ll e-mail the stuff.”

John didn’t ask about Marshall’s wife. He didn’t ask about his daughter, a flaxen haired six-year old beauty he’d met once; he played ‘The Itsy Bitsy Spider’ for her on his guitar. He didn’t ask about the thousand and one other people Marshall had known longer and with whom he could undoubtedly hang out that fateful night. Such was not his place, and, right now, he didn’t give a damn. 

“I’ll look for it.”

“Cool.”

It had been that easy. 

 

OAHU

John tanned really well. He’d never spent much time on the beach, having grown up in Connecticut, and a geek, besides. When they first got here they argued over who was redder and who peeled the most. After a couple of days, though, John had gone a dusky rose, then crossed over to a burnished hue that made him think someone in his family had been lying to him. Yesterday in the market a little old lady began prattling to him in Polynesian. 

He didn’t think he’d get this dark the first day when he puffed up the stairs to the beach house sweaty and thirsty with one mother of headache from being cramped in a Ford Festiva cab like an accordian. His knees might never recover. Wiping his forehead he’d knocked, then banged until he heard footsteps. 

Angry blue eyes spit sparks at him the minute the door flung open. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Lost.” John muttered, wincing as Marshall pulled the bag out of his hands and stalked in the house. “It’s confusing, okay? None of these roads have signs and the driver…”

“You’re crippled? Can’t use the goddamn cell?” Marshall bitched and John stared at him from the middle of the living room. If he weren’t busy feeling like ten kinds of stupid he’d be admiring the place. He knew how Marshall was, knew he could be unreasonable and difficult, but Jesus, he’d just juggled his schedule to get here, argued with his best friend, lied to people, and he sucked severe ass at lying, and now….And now he had to bite his lip from saying he was sorry, the words perched on his tongue like a knee-jerk reaction. Why the hell should he apologize when he didn’t do anything wrong? You’d think he stood Marshall up the way….John narrowed his eyes as his boyfriend prowled to the fridge and removed a beer, downing half in one swallow. Walking over slowly he stood behind the blond man studying the lines of tension in the muscled shoulders. Hesitating just a bit he took an inward breath and lay a hand on Marshall’s back; felt him start a little. 

Sometimes being with Marshall reminded him of gentling a wild horse, an unpredictable package of fire and muscle. John had never ridden a horse, except for a regrettable pony incident at party when he was five, but he imagined it was something like this: soft noises, gentle touches to harness all that energy, heady high of being the person to do it. 

Marshall wouldn’t look at him, or move away from the fridge. When his hand didn’t get flicked off like it sometimes did, he moved it to the tapered waist hidden among the expensive, baggy ghetto wear. Moved up flush to Marshall’s back and lay his lips on a bare, tattooed shoulder. 

“I’m not standing you up.” He murmured into the soft skin. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.” Marshall scoffed, putting a hand on the refrigerator. “’Cause I’d kill your ass.”

“Yeah.” John agreed. “That’d be a bummer.” There, a snuffled laugh and his boyfriend turned, electric blue eyes affectionate, and again with the heart palpitations, like some sappy Harlequin novel. John reached out to cup Marshall’s face, loving how his huge, clumsy hands could cradle the skull with its white blond hair. Loving how just that act could make the normally defensive blue eyes soft with emotion, and what kind of life had this man had that so few people touched him in tenderness? 

Warm, alcohol tinged tongue in his mouth and John whimpered back in his throat, he just couldn’t help it. Strong arms around him, bodily flipping him back against the fridge, and, oh, knowing hands in his pants, up his sweaty t-shirt, no, he was going to take a shower….

“Fucking MISSED you, man.” Nearly inaudible, rough whisper into his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut against the emotion that thickened his throat, and it was getting stronger, every time. He didn’t even try to stop it or get any perspective anymore. He didn’t want to. 

Marshall walked him the couch, hand on his crotch, and didn’t let him up for three hours. 

 

OSCAR NIGHT

 

“It’s starting!” John called to the bedroom. 

“Don’t give a fuck!” Marshall shouted back and John sighed, scooping more popcorn out of the bowl. Thing was, he knew Marshall gave a fuck. If he didn’t they wouldn’t be hidden away miles from civilization on Oscar night, in a luxurious beach house that, nevertheless, had both Internet access AND cable. Marshall wouldn’t have been bouncing off walls in a steady increase as evening approached until John found a POG game online and parked him in front of it. Marshall gave too much of a fuck. 

The proverbial red carpet faded from view and John watched Steve Martin try to be funny keeping one ear out for footsteps from what he’d started to call ‘the computer room’. 

None came. 

 

NEW YORK- EARLIER

“You’re going with him aren’t you?”

“Uh. No?” John said as he passed Stephen by with an armful of t-shirts. He should have gone shopping for summer wear, except he hadn’t really had time. Besides, to do so would mean this getaway was important enough to make him go shopping, something he loathed only more than root canals and being flayed alive, and, well, no way was he admitting THAT. So, no shopping. Ergo, no summer clothes that didn’t look like he’d bought them at a garage sale.

“We were supposed to play CBGBS. You’ve always wanted to play CBGBS.”

“We still are, we just rescheduled. It wasn’t even promo-ed.” John glanced at Stephen unable to meet the unblinking, fierce gaze behind the wire rim glasses for long. Steve was so mellow most of the time John forgot how intense he could get. 

“You’re blowing off CBGBS to go on vacation with that homophobic trailer trash prick.”

“Stephen.” The words felt like a slap and John turned to his where his friend stood slanted against a doorway, arms crossed, an angry glower on his face. “I’m NOT…”

“Johnny, stop. You are the world’s worst liar.”

“ I’m not…”

“Then where are you going?”

“Alright. Let me know when I can get a full sentence out, okay? Just let me know when that’s allowed.”

They stood glaring at each other, arms folded, the fabric of their friendship strained and shredding so John could almost picture it: a rope pulled taut between them, fibrous filaments snapping. It had been worn thin ever since John began this thing with Marshall. 

“I’m not a kid.” Only after the sullen words left his lips did he realize what an admission they were, and closed his eyes in defeat. Christ, he SUCKED at this; he just was not made to spout falsehoods with bland confidence. He had no practice at it. 

“Yes, you are.” Stephen contradicted him grimly.

“Twenty-six isn’t a kid, Steve.”

“No, that’s true. But you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve been really protected in this business, Johnny, and this person…he’s going to fuck you over. It’s what he does.”

“I need you to trust me on this.” John said quietly. 

“Then tell me where you’re going.” 

“I can’t.” He’d promised Marshall no one would know. He’d promised on his mother’s grave and crossed his heart and hoped to die that he would tell no one. Marshall was the most anxious he’d ever been about it and John had given his word. 

Stephen nodded slowly then turned to leave. John watched the short figure walk towards the door and felt pain sprout in his chest, because they never argued, before. The closest they got was good-natured bickering about where to go for lunch, and now this, and it hurt. 

“Steve.” He closed the distance in three quick strides; he was so much damned taller than his compact drummer. The man stopped at the door, back to him, and John wrapped his arms around stiff shoulders, placing his chin on the shaved head. They stood that way until he felt Steve sigh. “I’ll be alright.”

“This isn’t Dela, Johnny. Try to remember that.” Steve said into his forearm and John stilled for a second before resting his cheek on Stephen’s head. 

“I will.” But Stephen hadn’t met his eyes when he left, and he didn’t get rid of the cold knot on his stomach until Marshall kissed him the first time after he arrived. 

 

OSCAR NIGHT II

“Coming up after these words: Tom Cruise, Richard Gere, Barbra Streisand and the Oscar for Best Song.” 

John glanced over his shoulder at the computer room. He could still hear the stupid computer game going. Marshall had been at it for two hours at least. He could hear the electronic music chirping merrily along. 

And that was. Just wrong, he decided. Wrong and cowardly and ridiculous because Marshall might never get a chance at this again. He knew how talented his boyfriend was, but John truly believed you only got the light for a certain amount of time, as Stephen King said. If you pissed that time away, too bad so sad. His mule-headed lover was going to miss this and, in the long run, he’d never forgive himself for not watching, and he’d never admit it, the stubborn jerk. As he watched a muted commercial an idea came to him and he played with it a second then got up before he lost his nerve. 

He found his boyfriend hunched over the monitor tapping on the arrow keys for all he was worth. Miniature animated character hopped over each other and shot tiny guns that disintegrated other animated characters. Marshall was topless and wore baggy nylon shorts, tattoos etched over and around the biceps of his arms and smooth curve of his shoulder. Marshall’s daughter smiled at him from her daddy’s arm. 

For a minute John just watched Marshall; the blue eyes riveted to the screen, that mouth he had dreams about slightly agape. He twitched beneath his cargo pants, and he always did. He could just look at Marshall and want him, and that scared the hell out of John most days. 

“I’m gonna ask for a joystick next time, man. These tiny little fuckers suck.”

“I didn’t bring the joystick.” John replied regretfully and Marshall looked over at him with a raised eyebrow, eyes traveling down his body so John flushed at the slow, thorough study. 

“Yeah, you did.” Low, husky voice, and he had to swallow the desire in his throat because this would take concentration, and more initiative than he’d ever shown. 

“Oh, yeah. I did.” He smiled slowly and saw Marshall’s gaze fall to his crotch. John had lived in his long, loose cargo pants, the only pair he owned, and they hung off his hips below his naval, a good four inches of skin between the belt loops and the t-shirt he cut up the second day here. 

On the screen the little animated character died a musical and indignant death and Marshall swiveled around in the chair in a slow turn, because they had time, here. Not a hurried quickie or a stolen grope session in a limo here, and the way the heat had bloomed in John like a tended fire astounded him. The freckled body crossing into gold with its delineated stomach slouched in the chair, hands hanging relaxed on the arms. 

For weeks after they started sleeping together he’d been fixated on Marshall’s hands. How tapered and graceful they could be when they weren’t flipping someone off, which seemed to be their mission in life. Neat nails, rough tips and clever fingers that explored John’s body with skill, ease, ruthlessness sometimes. He stared at them now, hanging there, dormant, sensing their knowledge of his body and wanting it. 

“You made me lose my game, John.” Lazy, amused words and he tore his stare back up to the hungry blue eyes from the thickening spot between Marshall’s legs. 

“Oops.”

There were other words, seductive phrases he’d had planned but the blatant want in Marshall’s eyes arrested them. His cock jerked and John shifted, holding Marshall’s eyes because it was that way with them. Always the smoldering stare until John was so weak with desire he could barely walk; like playing chicken. The first person to speak broke the challenge. 

Marshall spoke. “Come here.” And for one second his plans went right out the window, evaporating in the raw need of those two words. His toes actually curled in anticipation of movement, but he stopped them. By the skin of his fingernails he stopped them. 

Shook his head. 

Marshall continued to watch him, patient, curious. A cobra, ready to strike. 

“Out there.” Miraculously he kept the wobble out of his voice and Marshall cocked his head, still musing, then the blue went ice cold. Then he got it. 

“Fuck you.” The words were whispered and pissed, but his hard on was still there, so John pushed ahead, heartened. 

“That’s the idea.” He agreed, leaning his head on the doorframe. Tried out what he hoped was a seductive smile. If he’d known he’d need one he’d have practiced. 

“Fuck. You.” The blue was stormy now, hurricane seas, but the electricity in the room felt palpable, and John realized he’d have to step it up, or the point would be lost, anyway. 

“Right.” He pushed away from the door and pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it on the ground. He didn’t have Marshall’s gym muscle, but he ran every day, and he swam laps with Dela twice a week now they weren’t on tour. He did okay. 

And he knew Marshall thought so. His boyfriends angry stare flicked to John’s torso and John wished he could touch himself without feeling like an idiot. 

“I ain’t watching that shit.”

“I’d be there with you.”

“So?” Marshall demanded then peered at the flush John knew overtook his face and ears. A crafty look began to come in the blue eyes that made him both turned on and nervous.  
He kept talking because if he shut up now he’d completely bail. 

“I’d BE there with you.” He repeated and that well known dimpled chin leaned back in reflection, long lashes narrowed. The arousal was obvious and Marshall held his eyes while he reached down to stroke the bulge, like someone would scratch an itch. He always did that and the bastard knew what it did to John, left him in fragments of want on the floor.

“Say it.” Low voice, but not rough. Not desperate, but coaxing. Almost honeyed, and Marshall was enjoying this. “If you can’t say it you can’t do it.”

He could do it. “We could fuck while we watched.” His skin was going to burn right off at this point, and despite his best efforts he dropped his eyes at the last minute. Cursed himself. 

“And how would we do that, John?” Sonofabitch. John stared at him, realized he was panting, that he wanted to touch himself, too, but couldn’t. Couldn’t, the phrase about as far as his WASP upbringing was willing to go without some alcohol or illegal drugs, maybe. Swallowed the dryness in his throat. 

“Are you saying you’d sit on my cock while we watched the Oscar’s, John?” Marshall asked in that almost prim voice that sounded like one of his characters so for a second John wondered if he was being made fun of. If the fire in the electric blue eyes hadn’t matched his own he’d think so. “With your back to my front so we could both see me lose?”

“You’re not losing.” He had no idea where that came from, followed closely by _/holy shit, what was he saying??/_

Something he couldn’t place flashed in Marshall’s eyes, and the next words had no teasing, no suaveness. “If I lose I do what I want to you for one night. Whatever I want, and you don’t say shit.”

“Deal.” He croaked.

“Let’s go.” Marshall stood, and no one should be able to walk that normally with a hard on. Breathing hard for a minute and concentrating on getting his feet to move, John finally pushed off the doorframe and headed to the living room. The Oscar music sounded and he wondered if he’d missed the stupid award anyway. 

Knew, somehow, he hadn’t. Felt scared and hard and hyperventilated. And elicit as hell. 

 

LIVING ROOM

Marshall should have slid right in and didn’t, and John felt the blush deepen on his face; it hadn’t really left since what’s he’d said in the bedroom. It certainly showed no signs of leaving now from where he sat awkwardly between Marshall’s open legs, pressure hard and insistent at his back as he throbbed with need from the image that seared itself into his brain: Marshall already nude and sitting in the middle cushion of the sectional sofa, feet flat on the ground, arms spread out on either side. They both had lighter skin between the waist and knees and it looked vulnerable and pale in contrast with the flushed, weeping cock in its nest of dark curls. Marshall’s gaze leveled at him, head tilted, eyes half closed and a faint smile on the pouting mouth. 

Marshall didn’t think he’d do it, John had realized then. Marshall thought John’s WASP nuclear family sensibilities had hit their peak with the computer room and he wouldn’t go through with it. Holding his boyfriend’s gaze he unsnapped the clasp on the cargo pants and drew down the zipper, letting them fall in a puddle. The soft cascade of fabric sounded hushed in the quiet because Marshall hated noise during sex, any noise. “I just need to hear you.” He’d once whispered in John’s ear while driving him out of his mind.

Then John clenched tight, he knew he did, because it’s not like they hadn’t been PRACTICING all week long. He’d even rolled the condom on Marshall’s turgid length without his hands shaking, though he thought his face might burst into flames at the act usually done in the darkness, intimate and secret. This had been his idea….

“Relax, man. Breathe.” Marshall’s voice sounded moist and low in his ear, so unlike his usual tone John jumped and felt MORE stupid. Oh, yeah, making real headway on the relaxation front. ‘Headway’. Christ. “It’s okay.”

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly John let his eyes slide closed, did a conscious, deliberate release of his muscles. He felt his shoulders un-knot and realized how much he HAD been holding tight and barely breathing at all. 

“That’s it.” Marshall whispered, the strong hands at John’s hips helping him to lift, nudge of a blunt, slick head at his entrance. Hands on his knees John let his head drop forward and rolled his hips a little, like part of the butterfly stroke in the pool, felt the breach and heard Marshall’s small gasp, and rolled again, fluid, languid. The hands on his hips pulled back and down and the hardness slid in deep, one decisive move that made his lids and mouth fly open, sightless soundless. 

“Fuck….” The voice behind him whispered in tones almost reverent, Marshall’s body quivering beneath his, fists clutching bruises on John’s hips and he didn’t care, oh, not at all one bit right now….. 

His boyfriend slouched lower on the sofa, shifting and a deep sound forced itself out from John’s throat when Marshall hit that spot and electric lines of heat unfurled from his groin all under his skin. 

“Fuck. Yeah.” Marshall muttered as John began to rock, fingers white-knuckled on his knees, eyes not even registering the people onscreen. A rough tipped hand left it’s grip on one hip bone and explored the terrain of his back, sizzling scratches along the vertebra and they only added to the heat.

“God.” John hadn’t meant to whimper out the word like that, or say anything at all but it forced itself out on it’s own, naked and desperate and Marshall groaned behind him, his thrusts harder, faster. John panted, staring at the people on the screen without seeing them, gowns, lights, all a blur as Marshall drove inside him, making those strangled half-moan noises that made John’s cock harder, drip down on the carpet and he couldn’t touch it, not if he wanted to last at all. 

“John, fuck, you feel…” Marshall muttered in fragments, and John’s lid fluttered closed because it affected him every time, how Marshall talked all through sex. The words were like rough caresses, exciting him every bit as the hardness in him or Marshall’s hands raking trails of heat down his back and over his chest. “Tight. Fuck…” A vicious thrust and John cried out, couldn’t help it. 

“Harder. Ride on me. Do it..” Marshall groaned and John rocked harder, unable to stop the long, low sound that escaped between his teeth because he could feel it slipping away from him, huge and so strong, and for a minute he shied away, scared of the intensity that threatened to obliterate him.

‘No’ his mind said, puzzlingly, but not ‘No’ because he couldn’t stop bouncing on the cock inside him, hitting that bundle of nerves each time, each time a silver nudge closer to the edge….

His eyes opened; he’d forgotten he’d closed them, and the woman on screen barely registered, filtering hazily through his sea of lust. Then she did and he leaned forward, scrambling for the remote and gasping as the different angle slid Marshall deeper than he thought possible. 

“Shiiiii…” Marshall panted, then growled as the sound came on, loud and startling.

“Tonight’s nominees for best original song in a Motion Picture are as diverse as the artists who perform them…” Ms. Streisand said with a smile and John fervently hoped he did not now forever associate her with sex. 

“Fuckin’ KILL you.” Marshall snarled, pistoning angrily now and John laughed breathlessly between the delicious strokes because if his boyfriend thought this was punishing he was so wrong.

“… and ‘Lose Yourself’ lyrics and music by Marshall Mathers and Luis Resto.”

Marshall began quivering behind him, minute trembles and John bit his lip. He was so close he could barely move for fear of letting go, but he didn’t think Marshall was shaking because of that. 

“And the winner is…” The famous long-nosed face became almost comically surprised and she uttered an actual SQUEAL. ‘Marshall Mathers for ‘Lose Yourself.’ 8 Mile original score…” Marshall gasped in surprise behind him and John laughed, almost lightheaded with joy and what he realized was relief. Thunderous applause flooded the room. “Accepting for Marshall Mathers is co-writer Luis Resto.”

A long haired Latino man wearing a bright red and blue Detroit Pistons Jersey beneath a tuxedo jacket strode up to the podium, long curly hair flying. John recognized him from a few of Marshall’s get togethers, but the man wasn’t part of the regular retinue.

“Oh my.” Luis pushed up his glasses eyes blinking behind the flash on his glasses. “This all goes to Marshall. I'm privileged, grateful to be involved with the song, along with my co-writers and friends, Jeff Bass, Marshall Mathers, who couldn't be here. It's a great thing working with Marshall day in, day out. He's creative. He has symphonies in his head that I'm privileged to put on the tape. He's a good man, good heart. Here's to you, Marshall." Luis held up the shiny statuette while the energetic applause and cheers continued form the audience on the upper level “Thank you so much. I love you, Colleen, Kyle, Olivia, everybody. Thank you..” Luis smiled, eyes still downward, an improbable figure with a nimbus of curly dark hair, heavy award held securely in slim, dark fingers while the lanky lyricist followed the hostess off the stage. The theme music surged once more. 

“I can’t believe…” Marshall muttered, almost to himself and John closed his eyes again because he’d been hard for a hundred years it ached, heavy and sensitive, and the length inside him had never even faltered. 

“Marshall, please.” He whispered, rolling back on his boyfriend’s lap, heard a grunt. Then he was righted upward so fast his vision swam. His legs were suddenly parted wide and he felt exposed, dirty, more frantically turned on than he’d ever been.

A guttural “Uh.” Left his lips as Marshall pumped him down, thumbs flicking the sensitive tips of John’s nipples, hot, moist mouth on his neck and breathy, rough whisper in his ear.

“Jerk off. Touch it. Now.” 

His hand flew between his legs before the command was finished and the touch made him keen because finally, finally. He stroked hard, fast then shouted as Marshall began to pump him ruthlessly, over and over, hitting his, oh, oh God…The orgasm exploded through him, scorching his nerves, making him shudder and blank out in the naked, vicious pleasure. He came for years. 

“Fuck, now I’m….” Marshall suddenly held him so tight John couldn’t breathe, he could only whimper as he felt Marshall let go with a sobbing groan of his name that set him off all over again, head thrown back with intensity. Behind him his lover quivered and drew ragged breaths against his shoulder as his climax took him. 

Then they were tilting, falling sideways on the blessedly cool couch, still connected, riding out aftershocks. John closed his eyes, amazingly, immediately tired and content, then gave a little sound as Marshall slid out of him. He’d never get used to the lost, hollow feeling right afterwards. Felt his lover sit up with effort to dispose of the condom. 

As soon as Marshall lay back down John rolled over because they barely fit here, two grown men, but he wouldn’t move for the world. His lover laced their legs together and slipped an arm around his waist and John shifted in until they were barely inches apart staring at each other through sleepy eyes. He could stay like this forever, breathing in Marshall’s air, existing in Marshall’s space, and not move from this cozy, damp cocoon. 

“I fucking won, dog.” Marshall whispered and John smiled at the wonder in his voice. The great Eminem never sounded this way, awed and surprised. 

“I told you.” He whispered back, and closed his eyes as Marshall brushed their lips together. 

“Yeah, you did. How’d you know?”

“Psychic.” John mumbled against Marshall’s mouth and his boyfriend chuckled, made himself more comfortable against John. 

“Right. No, really.”

He opened his eyes to the electric blue stare, softened in this slice of time between them, and his chest constricted with emotion. _I love him_. The phrase appeared in his mind with no doubt or fanfare whatsoever. John swallowed the words away and smoothed the short blond hair. Felt his lover nuzzle the touch.

“I didn’t.” He admitted quietly. “I just knew you should.”

Their eyes held, the moment stretching and gaining substance and Marshall cupped John’s face with one hand, expression serious. John lay a hand lightly over the muscled chest and felt the strong cant of Marshall’s heart against his palm. 

Somewhere, a cell phone trilled. 

“Shit.” His lover muttered, annoyed. 

“Get it.”

“Fuck it.”

“It could be Dre, or Hailie.” 

“Fuck, you’re right.” Marshall sprang up with cat like grace, clearing John’s prone form in seconds and jogging toward the kitchen. John heard the ringing stop and Marshall’s gruff. “’Sup?” 

“Heeeey, dawg! I fucking won, bitch!!” John laughed quietly to himself. It had to be Dre, or Harry, maybe. For some reason Marshall didn’t often call Luis ‘bitch’. Something about the man’s quiet demeanor made Marshall’s interaction with him subtly different than with his other friends. “Do you believe this shit?”

His lover’s voice continued excitedly and John rolled into the warm spot Marshall left, inhaling his scent and drifting in the warmth and lull of Marshall’s voice. 

*~*~*~

He awoke later, he had no idea how long, to the sound of Marshall’s voice, still talking on the phone. John yawned, stretching, then stilled as he recognized the sweet, playful tone. “Hay-lie. Hay-lie. Daddy won, baby. Yeah, I won. A bigass gold award. Don’t tell your mama I cursed.” Marshall chuckled quietly and John smiled to himself then buried his face in the cushions, not understanding the tears that threatened to overtake him. “I’m coming home soon, yeah. Yeah. Whatever you want, honey. I love you. I love you.” He almost crooned the words. “Hailie? Hailie?” Then, in a low, amused voice to himself. “Damn. Hung up on me again.”

John closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Felt Marshall’s hands slip around his ankles and slide up his body until the rapper lay on top of him, threading their fingers together over John’s head. 

“Yo.” Marshall mumbled into his neck.

“Yo.” John whispered back, and felt his lover snuffle. 

“Don’t even try it, baby. That is some sad shit.”

“Shut up.” John muttered, smiling over the clenching in his chest. He traced the length of the muscled arms, fingertips playing over the terrain until he held Marshall’s waist gently in both hands. Slid them languorously up his back, mapping muscle and bone. Marshall mmm-ed in pleasure. 

“We got a bed.” Marshall mumbled but he was starting to fade. John could hear it. 

“Like it here.”

“’Kay.” 

“What do I get?” He said against a smooth, slightly sweaty brow.

“Hm?” 

“For being right about you winning. What do I get?”

He felt the smile against his collarbone. “Got something in mind?”

You. “Not really. I like having the option, though.”

“Punk.” Marshall whispered affectionately. John caught a hand with his fingers and brought it up to his mouth, kissing the palm, each tip, all the knuckles. Marshall’s breath became labored he could feel his lover’s cock nudged between their legs, almost habitually half hard, but as drowsy as the man it belonged to. 

“I’m sleepy, dog.” Marshall mumbled, shifting and John held him closer, tucking his head beneath his chin by cradling the surprisingly fragile skull in one hand. 

“Me, too.”

“Make you happy in the mornin’. Promise.” Marshall muttered, already halfway to slumber and John nodded, closing his eyes against the constriction in his chest. 

“You already do.” He whispered when Marshall had drifted off, heavy and breathing evenly on top of him. 

That’s why leaving was going to hurt like hell.


End file.
